


burning bright right ‘til the end

by The-Immortal-Moon (LunaKat)



Series: 2019 New Year's Resolution (Year of Bastille) [1]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-07 01:06:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17356052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaKat/pseuds/The-Immortal-Moon
Summary: “You think a serial killer from Central is here in East City?”





	burning bright right ‘til the end

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who came up with another angsty one-shot?

“What do you mean  _dead_?” Ed demands.

Hawkeye winces, and wow, isn’t that terrifying. Hawkeye, the steel woman, the stalwart lieutenant, the indominable soldier—wincing.

“The soldiers guarding the estate were killed in the middle of the night,” she says, voice low. She’s saying it slowly so he and Al can process the information, not to sound patronizing or condescending or anything—but it still comes off that way and Ed bristles anyway, even as his guts twist at the information. “Whoever it was then made their way inside, and...”

...well. Ed can’t say he has any sympathy for Tucker. Bastard fucking had it coming. But... but what about...?

“Nina too?” Al asks, and bless him, bless him for being able to voice the fears laying pressure on Ed’s ribcage.

She averts her eyes, which says way more than Ed needs to know. His stomach drops to his feet.

His ears are ringing. Or maybe that’s just his heartbeat in his ears, amplified a little too loud, blotting out everything but the realization that any hope of saving Nina—any hope of returning her to  _normal_ —

Gone. Just like that. Up in smoke like a birthday candle blown out before you can make a wish.

There’s still pain in his ports from this morning. That’s the only reason he reaches up to clutch his shoulder. It’s not some—effort to console himself. No, of course not. He’s fifteen and grown up and way too old to find comfort in hugging himself like a child.

“Who?” he hears himself say. The ground is swaying precariously. It’s going to slam into his temples at this rate, hard and cold.

“I don’t know.” She shifts her raincoat in one arm and closes the door behind her, perhaps a little too loudly. The click of the latch bolt closing jolts him back into his body. “I’m going to the crime scene now.”

“I’ll come too,” he’s blurting out before he realizes it.

“No.” The firmness of her voice strikes him, like someone slamming a nail into place with the blunt end of a hammer. She glances his way and her eyes are steel, the kind of steel that clashes against itself, sends sparks flying through the air in an orange-bright spray. “It... would be best if you didn’t see.”

...what does that mean? Does that mean—that it was gruesome? Bloody? Did she  _suffer_? Are there—guts all over the place and shit?

Unconsciously, Ed’s mind slides back to last night’s dreams. To the twisted, warped mess he and Al had made out of their mother all those years ago, with the ribs protruding from the split chest and the red-brown spill of fleshy innards and peeling black necrotic skin and brittle bones—

And blood. _So_ much blood. Enough blood to _drown in_.

His heart writhes where it’s leaped to his throat.

The lieutenant pauses halfway down the hall, the way someone does when they suddenly remember something. Her eyes are still steel as she spares a glance over her shoulder. “You two should stay here.”

“Huh?”

“The colonel is at the scene right now,” she says, turning forward again. “He’ll be leaving as I’ll be arriving—can you wait for him in the meantime?”

Ed’s first impulse is to flat-out refuse, because the last person he wants to see right now is fucking _Mustang_. The last thing he wants to do is _sit here_ in this damn military building—this damn place that pressures State Alchemists _to do what Tucker did_ —and wait for someone who essentially responded to the senseless tragedy of yesterday with a flat “buck up”. Hell, if he _does_ see Mustang again, Ed might not be able to stop himself from just decking the bastard right in that smug fucking face of his. The fuck does that bastard know about them and their tragedy and all the shit they went through, saying “don’t get weighed down by things like this”? The fuck does he get off that power trip—

But Al gives a creaking nod (the hinges need to be oiled), and murmurs a soft, “Okay, lieutenant.” And Ed is not going to protest.

Shit. Ed glances up at his brother. Of course Al would be hurting, too. The fuck is he doing, making this all about him?

Well. He still might punch Mustang in the face, just to make himself feel better.

With a smile that is probably meant to be reassuring, but largely fails, Hawkeye departs.

* * *

Riza arrives just as Lt. Col. Hughes and Major Armstrong appear on the scene to take a look at the carnage. The colonel has already departed at this point, informed Havoc that he decided to walk back to Eastern Command, figuring he could get a jump on the report. He says he trusts Riza to direct the soldiers far more effectively.

Of course, even as Havoc tells her this, he has a solemn look on his face, and Riza doesn’t blame him. He hasn’t known Roy Mustang as long as she has, but even he can tell that the colonel is using that as an excuse to spend a few minutes out in the rain, contemplating gloomy things and indulging in self-hatred. Tucker was not necessarily under the colonel’s jurisdiction, but he did make close contact with the Life-Sewing Alchemist in the past. He probably blames himself for not being able to anticipate this event.

And now Shou Tucker is dead, with any hope at justice being delivered permanently snuffed out.

The colonel is a man who believes that crimes should be punished. He wants to try every perpetrator of the Ishvalan Massacre, himself included, because he believes so strongly in the idea of justice, of restitution. This has to be a blow to him, too.

Well, there’s nothing that can be done now, Riza muses as she glances up at the sky. It’s still dark, yesterday’s storm still not entirely clearing—the clouds are thick and gloom-laden, nearly black as they swirl overhead. The weather might break into rain again. She nods her thanks to Havoc for relaying the information, then steels herself as she steps inside the manor.

There’s still a lingering smell of blood in the air, lingering splatters on the wall. White sheets in the center of the room mask the bodies, which she understands to be badly mutilated. What a violent way to go.

She finds Hughes scowling at the corpse of Tucker as he raises the sheet, but the way he does it makes it apparent that he’s trying to hold back a gag or a wince or anything else that might express discomfort. He was in the war too, is an investigator of crime scenes ranging from mild to downright gruesome—gore is not something he is unused to.

No, there’s something else that plagues him as he lowers the sheet back over the cadaver. He and Armstrong share a worried look. Riza may not have the gift of politics and reading people that her superior has, but these two are making no attempts at hiding their unease, and even someone like her, who is adept more in aiming at people’s head than understanding what’s inside them, can pick up on it.

“Is there a problem, sir?” She keeps her voice steady, and does not direct her inquiry at either one of them in particular. But she looks at Armstrong, because he is more generous with information than Hughes is.

Which is why it’s a surprise when Hughes is the one who says, “The MO matches a serial killer we’ve been seeing in Central.”

Surprised, she blinks. “You think a serial killer from Central is here in East City?”

“He has gone unusually quiet in the last couple weeks,” muses Armstrong in that low, thunderous voice of his. It sounds terribly grave now, the low register of it only seeming to compound on the already-existing ominousness. He looks up with steely blue eyes. “If he were traveling, that would account for the lack of activity.”

“I see,” Riza says, and thinks to herself that this is perhaps a little above her paygrade.

She doesn’t seem to be the only one. Hughes starts massaging the bridge of his nose, glasses lifting, eyes squeezed shut as though physically pained. “When’s Roy getting here?”

That has her blinking again. “He already left, sir.”

Hughes freezes, then looks up with bewildered eyes. “Sorry?”

“He departed from the scene shortly before you arrived.”

Again, Armstrong and Hughes share a worried look—only this has a little more alarm laced in it.

A tickle of unease settles in Riza’s sternum. “Is there a problem?”

“Where did he go?” Hughes asks instead, a little more urgent than is necessary.

...unless he thinks the colonel is in trouble, in which case urgency is completely warranted. “He was heading back to Eastern Command. However, he decided to walk.”

“ _What_!”

“Sir,” Riza says, carefully, oh so carefully, “what’s going on?”

The lieutenant-colonel’s adam’s apple bobs. “This particular serial killer, lieutenant, is targeting State Alchemists specifically—he’s got ten victims so far. Eleven, counting Tucker.”

It feels like the world just tipped a little on its axis. Ten—eleven victims. Eleven State Alchemists—all of them the best practitioners in the country, the literal cream of the Amestrian crop—dead at the hands of one man. It shouldn’t be possible. It shouldn’t be—

Her eyes flick out the window. The curtains are drawn, and the storm has broken. Rain is coming down in a light but steady patter.

Fear plants itself deep in her belly. “Edward and Alphonse are at Eastern Command now.”

“Call his office,” Hughes says, and it is not an order, not the kind from a superior or a subordinate—this is one concerned friend to another.

As such, she does not waste her time saluting.

* * *

A droplet lands on his nose.

Roy glances up at the sky just as more fat silver drops leek from the clouds. It looks like yesterday’s storm isn’t quite finished—the heavens are weeping, are roiling in protest against the senselessness of what has occurred today. More fuel to the fire, or so they say.

He sighs and pulls his collar up higher. Not that it doesn’t fit his somber mood or anything, but wet hair is never pleasant. He should have brought an umbrella with him. Damn.

Most people, once they realize that his alchemy is rendered ineffective by the humidity and precipitation, seem under the impression that he despises rain, and that’s not true. He actually likes it a great deal. There’s something about the silver sheets when it comes down heavy, about the steady drumming of droplets against the pavement and the faint blurry mist that it kicks up as the water sprays all over the place—it’s absolutely captivating.

When he was younger, he had a grand old time splashing around in puddles wearing a bright yellow raincoat, laughing at the squishy feeling that gathered in his boots. The textures of the storm clouds had fascinated him. Most children were quailed by the sound of thunder, but he found it more invigorating than anything. He’d loved the rain so much that he checked out a book on meteorology at the library—that was actually what got him into science, actually. Not chemistry, but meteorology, which had naturally led to thermodynamics, and then physics, and then eventually to alchemy.

Ironic that the thing that led him to alchemy can steal it away.

But he likes that about the rain. The power of it, its ability to exert its will even over seemingly-omnipotent beings such as himself. In the dark somberness of it lies a beauty, a grim sort of contemplation, a reminder that the world must turn dreary and gray and that clear skies are always an illusion. But even when it came down in sheets and made you miserable with the cold of it, the sound drummed against the pavement like a heartbeat, like a lullaby.

In the badlands of Ishval, rain was a benediction. A reminder of life, a blessing of prosperity, a gift handed to you in silver sheets. Gray skies out in the desert meant God favored you.

But here, in East City, rain is just plain dreary.

He  _really_  should have brought an umbrella.

Most people take shelter once the precipitation starts coming down. Others pull out umbrellas, having far more forethought than himself. Those that are in the same boat as him either duck for cover or wrap themselves tighter in their coats and trudge onward.

One man does neither. He lingers beneath a lamppost, unbothered by the rain—he holds a hand out to catch droplets in his palm, head tilted back like a thirsty desert flower unused to the storm’s blessing. Droplets collect on his dark glasses.

As Roy passes the man, a voice comes, “You’re Colonel Roy Mustang, the Flame Alchemist, are you not?”

That makes Roy pause. Yes, his uniform is briefly visible through his coat, but his stars aren’t. No one should be able to guess his rank, much less recognize him personally.

Heart thumping a little louder (old battle instincts, they never die, no matter what they tell you), he glances over his shoulder. The man is looking at him directly now, behind those dark-lensed glasses. Rain drips off white hair, traces rivulets down cinnamon-colored cheeks.

A massive scar forms a sloppy “x” across his face.

Something about it makes Roy’s nerves hum. Hughes once mentioned something—something about a massive scar.                  

Battle instincts tell him to raise his hands, get ready to snap. But those were instincts developed in the desert and they will not save him here—what will is the standard-issue gun tucked in his hip. He slips one hand downward, knows how to do it so it looks like he’s just shoving a hand in his pocket, striking a cocky pose complete with that suave smirk of his.

He doesn’t pull the smirk out, right now. “Can I help you?” Roy asks slowly, carefully.

“Yes.” The man has an accent, one that makes Amestrian words sound clunky and thick, like wooden blocks in his mouth. He pulls his other hand out of his pocket. Through the sleeve, Roy catches a glimpse of the wrist and a flash of dark ink on it. “You can die quietly.”

Turns out, battle instincts  _can_  save him. Roy leaps out of the way just as the pavement explodes.

This is what he gets for not bringing a damn umbrella. _Shit_.

* * *

“No, he isn’t here,” Al says into the phone as Ed slumps on the colonel’s butt-ugly couch. Fucking hell, the bastard needs to get better taste in upholstery. Seriously, Ed thinks he saw this at an 1880s garage sale in some southern town. It’s really fucking uncomfortable too, all slippery and plastic-y and the fabric doesn’t sink around you like it’s supposed to.

There’s a pause. Ed glances out the window with an unpleasant noise rumbling in his throat. The weather has turned again, rain coming down in a steady sheet beyond the glass pane. What painkillers he took this morning to ease the discomfort of barometric pressure in his ports aren’t enough against this second torrent—a low ache simmers in the junction between titanium and flesh, bringing with it that vague bubble-in-the-throat sensation of upcoming nausea.  _God_ , he hates rain. Not only is it a pain in the ass, but it’s also just fucking depressing, goddamn. Whoever invented rain needs to fix it so it’s less dreary.

“Um.” That simple vocalization sounds more nervous than it should—the faintest quiver of panic. Ed glances back over at his brother, searches the outline of the armor and finds that it is slightly tenser than it should be. “We—We could go out and look—”

Look? Look for what? Ed glances at the clock. Come to think of it, what’s taking the bastard so long anyhow?

“O-Okay.” Nervously subdued, Al nods hastily, even though no one can see it. Ed’s frown deepens. “Okay. Thank you, lieutenant.”

Al hangs up just a little too hard. It’s rare, these days, for Al to lose control of his strength. Not unless there are strong emotions at play.

“What was that about?” Ed asks.

Still rattled, Al threads his fingers together. “The lieutenant was asking if Colonel Mustang had come back yet. I told her no. She... she sounded worried.”

Rain is pounding against the windows now. Yesterday’s storm was bad, but today’s looks no less intense. You can hardly see out the glass with how distorted it is by the water.

“Brother.” Al’s voice is soft, tentative. He twiddles his thumbs, bows his body so that it makes him look smaller—vulnerable, almost. “Do you think the colonel is in trouble?”

“Mustang? Please. He’s a bastard, but he isn’t an  _idiot_.” Like, okay, there was that one time when they had to do a raid for gang or something (Ed still has no idea how he got roped into that one), and the bastard kind of jumped the gun a little. Got himself nicked by a bullet, but he was fine the next day. And yeah, there was that one time with the train with a terrorist’s bladed automail arm, but again, the bastard creamed him and it was just a graze, so no big whoop. Ed ended up with more damage than Mustang because the bastard waited until the last second, per fricking usual, to get involved.

And that time in New Optain, with the rogue alchemist that fucked up electrical wiring and basically turned buildings into bombs, and the bastard made it out with some minor burns. And that time with McDougal the Freezer, when they both ended up impaled by iced blood spears (nothing too serious). And that one time—

...

Oh, screw it.

Sighing exaggeratedly, Ed rises to his feet. His steel leg  _thunks_  audibly on the floor. “Dammit. Let’s go out and look for ‘im.”

“B-But the lieutenant said to stay here—”

“Well then she shouldn’t’ve called! She knows how we are by now.” There’s no one in the main office—everyone is out at the crime scene, so it’s deserted. Which is actually kind of creepy, if you think about it. “C’mon!”

Clanking footsteps trail at Ed’s heels. “But Brother—”

“Let’s go! I don’t wanna stay out in this weather too long—you?”

“...no,” Al admits.

“Let’s get a move on, then!”

Ugh, the rain is really making Ed sick. Hopefully they find the bastard  _quickly_.

* * *

At the sight of the massive crater in the sidewalk on Elm Street, Maes’s stomach flips. He tries to remember if there are any other State Alchemists stationed in East City, if there’s even a remote possibility that it isn’t Roy caught up in this—if there’s even a chance—

None that he can recall. Roy, Ed, Tucker, two others in Central on account of assessments (one of which is already dead), and one that just got transferred to New Optain.

Shit.

He presses the gas pedal harder. Let’s make one thing clear here—his daughter is  _not_  growing up without her uncle.

* * *

The gun quivers in Roy’s hand.

He’s backed into a corner, nowhere to run. The rain is coming down in buckets, beating relentlessly against him like a condemnation of his very existence. His gloves are useless. His ankle throbs from where he twisted it trying to get away when Scar—the  _State Alchemist Killer, god fucking dammit_ —took a chunk out of a building and nearly took him with it. There’s a pounding in his temples from where he hit his head in that same incident, then got up and kept running.

The gun is loaded. He’s a good shot. Close range. Safety off. He can end this now.

Scarlet eyes leer back at him.

It all makes fucking sense now.

“You’re,” Roy starts, but he can’t say it, can’t let the word out of his throat. It stays trapped there, in the prison bars of his vocal chords, a criminal sentenced to die for his guilt.

Scar’s firm mouth twists in disgust at the sight of the gun. Roy remembers hearing, once, that the Ishvalans were not fond of the devices—if not for the war and for Aerugo supporting them, he doubts so many enemies would have wielded bullets. “And you,” he says in clunky, accented Amestrian, “are the destroyer of my people.”

It all makes  _so much fucking sense_.

The serial killer advances forward. One step, two. Flexes his fingers like they’ve fallen asleep and he’s trying to stimulate blood flow again. “Well?” There’s a challenge in his voice. “Aren’t you going to take the shot?”

He should. Roy should. He—he needs to live. He needs to become Fuhrer, to make things right, to clean all the blood out of the military machine so that it isn’t clogging up the gears and then it can run like it’s _supposed_ to. He needs to  _change_  things.

But he also needs to stand trial, needs to face justice. Needs to be condemned for every atrocity that was committed beneath that blazing, glaring sun.

And Scar is here, with red eyes that glare with the same vehemence, the same  _hatred_. Scar is here and he can effortlessly take chunks out of buildings and cause the pavement to explode. Scar is here and there are others like Roy who have answered for what they’ve done at the hands of this angry, bitter man.

Scar is here, while the rain is coming down in torrents.

In the desert, rain is a blessing, a show of God’s favor.

Does that mean this is divine punishment?

Roy’s hand is shaking. He clasps his other hand around it to steady the first, but now they’re both shaking. They’re both shaking and he can’t get a clear aim.

Goddammit.

* * *

“Fucking  _hate_  rain,” Ed grouses. His hood is pulled up over his head but the fabric isn’t water-resistant, so it’s really not working to keep him dry at all. His ports are killing him, too.

It’s hard to even see through all the rain. Fucking hell.

Al’s footsteps are a steady clank that offsets the drumming of the rain against his steel shell. He tilts his helmet-head up a little to peer up at the heavens, the feathery ornament dripping. “I think it’s letting up a little.”

“ _Finally_ ,” Ed growls, and tugs the hood up higher. He’s numb all the way to his toes. Rain is getting into his eyes, bangs clinging frigidly to his cheeks. He swipes it out of his eyes.

That brief moment of clarity allows him to notice something funny about a building a few blocks down.

“The hell?” He squints, swiping more rainwater out of his eyes.

“What is it?”

“Somethin’ weird’s over there.” His automail is being a goddamn pain. “C’mon.”

As they get closer, it becomes apparent that “weird” cannot quite ascribe the phenomenon. “Alarming” might be a better fit, considering buildings don’t usually have chunks randomly taken out of them. Maybe “distressing”... yeah, “distressing” works.

Something happened here. That’s the only explanation. This sort of damage doesn’t come from wear and tear, or from shitty construction. It looks more like someone blew a charge in the cement. A massive crater takes residence where there was probably once a clean, crisp corner, and rubble litters the sidewalk and the street, which gives even more credence to the whole “things blowing up” theory. Cement pieces don’t normally land almost ten feet away from their original spot unless they’ve been blasted or thrown or some shit.

The weird part, though—and there  _is_  a weird part—is the way the crater is rimmed. It’s not entirely clear, because the rain still forms a misty grey shroud over the world, but as Ed runs a gloved hand over the rough ridges of the breakage, he thinks they form the rectangular intervals of transmutation marks.

Behind him, Al is knelt down to examine the rubble. “What do you think happened?”

Ed runs his thumb over the ridges. “Someone alchemically blasted a chunk out of the building, that’s what.”

“Brother?” There’s a hint of wariness in Al’s tone. “Do you think... the colonel...”

A scowl presses itself firmly on Ed’s face as he surveys the damage. The bastard doesn’t specialize in minerals or any type of solid matter—no way could he have transmuted cement to this extent.

Someone else, though...

There’s a couple alleyways around here—if Mustang was going to corner someone, he’d drive them into an alleyway. Ed shoves his hands into his pockets and grumbles about bastards being way more trouble than they’re worth as he stomps off towards the alley on the other side of the building.

“Do you think he’s... okay?” Al asks, trailing after.

“Ah, c’mon, Al. You know the bastard. He’s like a cockroach, y’know?” The lip of the alleyway shows no signs of transmutation, no collateral damage or anything. Either whoever it was that punched a hole in the side of the building didn’t come anywhere close to this place or they panicked too much to transmute anything else. “Practically immortal! And even if he  _did_  die, he’d come back from the dead just to critize my—”

**blood**

“...height.”

“Brother, what—” A sharp, metallic gasp. “O-Oh my  _God_.”

What lies in the alleyway, amidst rubble and cracked cement and trash that has been carelessly discarded, is completely illogical. Ed can make out—can make out a military uniform, a too-familiar black raincoat. A gun discarded on the ground, the same kind that military personnel usually carry. The smell of sewage and rain mixes terribly with—

“Ed!” A steel arm is suddenly supporting him, his flesh leg buckled and his body is listing heavily to one side and he nearly bangs his forehead on the pavement with all the...

All the...

there’s  _so much blood_  so much so much so _red_ its all over the walls and in the puddles and its red red _red_ dark red dark red so much red splatters and smears all over the walls red red red there’s  _so much blood_

it’s just like that night all over again  _so much blood_  we’re sorry we’re sorry we’re sorry  _we’re sorry please_

and the  _face_ —

“It’s not him,” Ed hears himself saying, his throat clenches and there’s that bubble-in-your-throat feeling of going-to-be-sick but it’s just the rain, just his automail, not the smell—no, no, no. “It’s not him, Al. It’s not him. It’s not.”

He can feel the arm that’s holding him up tremble. He gives it a comforting pat with his right hand. Steel on steel.

“It’s not him. C’mon, Al, it can’t be.” The rain is pounding like his heart in his ears but louder, louder, louder. Everything is grey and pounding and spinning. “He’s too stubborn. He’s like a fucking cockroach.”

“Brother.” Al’s voice breaks.

But that doesn’t make sense? Why’s Al’s voice breaking? Doesn’t he understand what’s going on here? “I-It’s a fake, see. Somebody—somebody’s tryin’ to... to...”

Somewhere in the distance, there’s shouting, and car engines, and the screech of tires on waterlogged pavement. Chaos and confusion and the rain slowing to a mere trickle. Spitting, they call this. Spitting, when it’s just a few sporadic droplets here and there, when the clouds start coming unlocked. Spitting, though, sounds like a condemnation.

The clouds are parting. A sliver of sunlight grazes Ed’s face. It slants over the pool and

**R E D**

“What are you two doing here?!” the lieutenant is shouting somewhere behind them. He hardly hears her. There’s blood rushing in his ears and Al is trying to hold him steady and then—

Somehow or another, they all materialize next to them—Hughes and Hawkeye and even fucking Armstrong, goddamn. What are they all doing here? They should be out, finding Mustang. They should be—

“Oh fuck,” Hughes says, and it’s the worst Ed has ever heard him curse. He’s staring dead into the alley like he’s lost all his precious photographs in an unexpected fire and he’s just watching as the carnage slowly collapses in on itself. All wide eyes and white in the face and mouth moving soundlessly to trace words that won’t make themselves known.

“Oh  _fuck_ ,” he repeats, louder, as the lieutenant throws a hand over her mouth.

Strong hands on Ed’s shoulder. Armstrong, guiding them away. “You two shouldn’t be here.”

“Major,” Al chokes.

“It’s not him,” Ed says.

Armstrong gestures towards some other uniformed soldiers. Two run over—a tubby guy and an old skinny guy. “Please escort the Elric brothers back to Eastern Command.”

Hawkeye’s shoulders are shaking. What the fuck.

“It’s not him,” Ed says again. No one’s listening. Why is no one listening? Don’t they  _get_  it? “Okay?  _It’s not him_. He’s—He’s too much of a stupid bastard.”

No one is listening. The soldiers Armstrong called over are tugging them away.

No. No! Ed digs his heel in and, louder, he says, “And even if he  _did_  die—”

“Ed.” Hughes’s voice is flat. “Stop.”

“—h-he’d come back just to be an absolute fucking _bastard_ —”

“Just  _shut up already_!”

Ed’s tongue stills. Bewildered, he peers up at Al.

Al’s whole body is rattling.

“Just  _stop_.” Whoever says armor can’t cry is a fucking liar. Rivulets of rainwater create an illusion of tears running over every inch of glinting steel, thick around the empty eyeholes and dripped off the helmet, all steady and rhythmic. Drip, drip, drip. And Al—he’s making these noises that sound like, like someone’s breath catching in a sob, but that doesn’t make sense. That doesn’t make sense. This doesn’t make sense. “ _Please_. Just... _stop_ it already.”

Sunlight greets the world beneath, golden and bright. Ed blinks and doesn’t understand.

“... _bastard_.”

* * *

In the distance, Scar watches as people congeal around Mustang’s resting place. Most of them wear the dreaded navy blue of Amestrian soldiers—there is a blonde woman who is weeping openly, a hand over her mouth and trembling violently as a bespectacled man hesitantly sets a comforting hand upon her shoulder—but there are two forms who have no blue on them and as such stand out like a sore thumb.

The first is a massive suit of armor, which is so prominent simply due to its sheer height in comparison. But it bows its head as though in silent mourning as another soldier guides it to a military car.

But the other contrasts brilliantly from the swarm of blue, a crimson coat stained dark from the rain. Whoever it is absurdly small next to the muscular soldier attempting to usher them along—only for them to struggle against him and start shouting something. Scar is too far away to hear the words, but the voice carries anyway, the grief in it raw and cracked and splitting like blisters accrued from walking barefoot in the desert.

That voice sounds painfully young.

He looks down at his hand—his brother’s hand, this unholy weapon of destruction that has been forced upon him. Whatever remains of Flame’s blood has been washed off by the rain, dripping innocently off the fingers. The fingertips tingle with the remembrance of the transmutation, how Flame’s body felt as it ruptured from the inside out beneath this palm, as those dark eyes turned pulpy as they lost the light in them.

_“Last words, huh? That’s tricky... There are so many I’d want to talk to. Should I make you a list, then?”_

The blonde weeping woman is ushered away from the alleyway’s mouth. Someone is throwing an arm over her. She is trembling beneath the weight of her own grief—and then her legs give out, so suddenly that you’d miss it if you blinked.

_“To Riza, I’d want to say—don’t cry over me. We both know I brought this on myself. At least now, you can live without that burden anymore.”_

There is a man standing in the alleyway. His silhouette seems old, ancient, the way Scar felt as he stood on the ledge and watched Ishval burn from above. Then he averts his eyes, adjusts his glasses, as though the sight is too much.

_“To Hughes, I’d tell him to live and enjoy that family of his and take as many pictures as he wants.”_

More soldiers are gathering at the scene. A lanky blond, a stout redhead, a white-haired man, a twitchy man with glasses. They all keep as much distance as they can from the alley. Like it’s cursed.

_“My aunt... no, she already knows. There aren’t words. But to my team, I’d say: thank you for putting up with me all this time. God knows it couldn’t have been easy.”_

There is screaming and fury and grief as the red-coated figure thrashes. The overly muscular soldier has to scoop them up and throw them over one shoulder like a sack of potatoes, which only seems to enrage them more. Arms and legs flail in a pointless attempt at getting free and—reaching, reaching out for the alley in some frustrated desperation.

It’s hard to see through the windows, but Scar thinks he sees the suit of armor bow its head and place the helmet in both hands, as though weeping.

_“The Elrics... endure it. Don’t let me stand in your way. You have your own goals to worry about.”_

Soldiers are starting close the area off. Someone brings out a roll of thick yellow police tape. The soldier with the glasses steps away as though in a daze. The woman is raised back to her feet. The herd of new arrivals cluster around her. The red-coated individual is all but thrown inside the car, and the door is slammed shut.

_“I think that’s it. ...you’ll keep your word?”_

Scar turns away. One of the lenses is cracked from where that one bullet knocked them off. He pushes the glasses higher up on the bridge of his nose. The world is fractured.

_“Go ahead, then. God knows I deserve it.”_

He tucks his offending hands into his pockets as he departs. _Very well, Flame. I will end my mission with you._

**Author's Note:**

> If no one dies a little inside after reading this, I quit. Title is from the lyrics of "Good Grief" by Bastille.


End file.
